by DeVa Gantt
Charmaine began buttering the slices. “A chance at what?”
Felicia laughed spuriously. “There you go again, actin’ all naïve, with your high-and-mighty airs. You think you’re better than me, don’t ya? Ever since you got your room moved to the second floor. Well, you might think you’re somethin’ special, but you ain’t. You’re still hired help, just like me and Anna. So you oughta stop pretendin’ ’cause everyone knows you’re just the riffraff daughter of a murderer! Worse than us, in fact.”
Charmaine grimaced, hurt, yet perplexed. The maid’s verbal abuse had died down long ago, so why this?
“What I’d like to know is what you’re up to,” Felicia proceeded.
“You’ve been stringin’ Paul along for a year now, and that ain’t worked. So maybe you think you can make him jealous by fishin’ for a bigger catch. Is that what she’s up to, Anna?”
Anna nodded, bolstering Felicia’s fantastic theory.
The jaded woman smiled wickedly and continued to speak to Anna as if Charmaine weren’t there. “Ma-de-mwah-zelle Ryan will have her hands full if she thinks she can mewl after John the way she’s mewled after his brother.”
“John?” Charmaine gasped. “I leave him to you, Felicia!”
“Ain’t that generous of you!” the maid exclaimed, eyes hard as granite, voice cold as ice. “But I’ve seen the changes ’round here—enemies one day, friends the next. What did ya do, lift your skirts behind Paul’s back?”
Revolted, Charmaine grabbed the tray and rushed up the servant’s staircase.
“That’s right, Ma-de-mwah-zelle,” Felicia called after her, “you run back to the children and leave the men in this house to me. But if you’re gonna keep playin’ your games, stick to Paul and stay away from John!”
Charmaine was still simmering when she reached the nursery. She forced a smile for Rose and Pierre, offered them the snack, then settled next to Jeannette, who was absorbed in a book. “It must be interesting,” she commented, pushing Felicia from her mind.
“Hmm?” the girl queried, her eyes rising slowly to Charmaine.
“Oh yes, it is! Mademoiselle, do you really think a person can become a vampire?”
“A vampire? Is that what your book is about?”
“Yes! They’re terrible creatures that awaken from the dead,” Jeannette explained, her eyes wide with wonderment and fear. “By day, a vampire’s body remains asleep in its tomb, but at nightfall, the vampire rises up and stalks the earth, searching for victims—”
“Jeannette, you’ll frighten your brother! Why ever would you want to read such a novel, anyway?” She took the book and leafed through the pages of folklore. “Wherever did you get this?”
“Yvette found it in the library a couple of days ago,” Jeannette explained. “She’s going to read it after she finishes Frankenstein.”
“Frankenstein?” Charmaine asked, her eyes going to Yvette, who lay on the floor next to the French doors, also reading.
“This is even more frightening than vampires,” the girl imparted. “Just listen…” and she began reading excerpts from the ghastly story.
Having heard enough, Charmaine walked over to the girl and wrenched the book from her hands. “Mary Shelley…Where did you get this?”
“From Johnny. And Mary Shelley claims a corpse stood over her—”
“Corpse?” Charmaine gasped. “Why would anyone, let alone a woman, want to write something like this?”
“To win a wager,” Yvette replied.
“A wager?”
“Johnny said Mary Shelley and her friends were trying to see who could write the most frightening story.”
“And did she succeed?”
“I think so. After all, wouldn’t you be frightened by Dr. Frankenstein’s experiments to bring the dead back to life?”
“Bring the dead back to life? Yvette, this story is sacrilegious—”
“—and he collected the bodies from graves—”
“That’s enough, Yvette!” Charmaine scolded, snapping the book shut.
Rose concurred.
“No more talk about desecrated graves or reanimated corpses,” Charmaine decided. “And just to make certain, I’ll hold on to this until you are a bit older.”
“But you can’t! I have to finish reading it or else—”
“Or else what?” Charmaine pressed, noting the glance Yvette threw Jeannette’s way. “Out with it, or you won’t be seeing this book ever again.”
“That’s unfair!” she replied in a huff, and then: “Joseph was teasing me. He called me a ninny and said I’d be crying before I finished it. So now I must!”
“Yvette, why do you allow that boy to taunt you? He is five years older than you are. He knows he can get the better of you.”
“Well, he can’t! And once I’ve won the wager, I can call him a ninny!”
“Wager?” Charmaine asked. “I hope this doesn’t involve money.”
Yvette shook her head emphatically, but Charmaine remained unconvinced. Nevertheless, she relinquished the book with the agreement that once Yvette had proven her point to Joseph, the macabre storytelling would cease.
Tuesday, August 29, 1837
“Rose isn’t feeling well,” John explained from the nursery door.
“Yes, I know,” Charmaine replied timidly.
“She mentioned the girls’ lessons. I thought I might lend a hand with Pierre.”
Charmaine nodded warily, allowing him to enter, and so it was settled. John hadn’t spent thirty minutes with Pierre before the twins coaxed him over to their desks, and soon, he was dividing his attention amongst all three children.
She had been loath to reveal the subjects they had covered thus far, certain he’d scorn her limited knowledge, but he didn’t seem to care at all. He took them on imaginary journeys to uncharted places filled with curious facts, weaving a treasure trove of information into a spellbinding tapestry. They rode a train pulled by a locomotive steam engine from Richmond to Washington, where they climbed into a hot-air balloon and floated all the way to New York. There they watched a baseball game and ate ice cream in the middle of August, rode an omnibus to the circus and saw a mermaid and a man with two heads. Next he launched into silly stories that he told in clever verse, and when he couldn’t think of a word that rhymed, he made one up. The children’s giggles bounced off the walls, their faces radiant with wonder.
As the second hour neared its end, Charmaine began to fathom John’s subtle, yet artful tactics. She had never known a man to seek out children as he did. If it were possible, he had won them over again, and she realized this would be the first of many such lessons. They would benefit from his knowledge, and he, in turn, could escape to this oasis of acceptance in a home where he was mostly spurned.
She marveled at how effortlessly he captivated them. She’d never seen them so happy, not even when Colette was alive. Begrudgingly, she acknowledged he was a better tutor than she could ever hope to be. How could she compete? Did she want to? Age, experience, travel, and the privilege of wealth gave him the undisputed advantage. This was a fortuitous opportunity for the girls, even Pierre.
When the twins pleaded him to visit the next day, John awaited her consent. Her consent! She almost laughed aloud at the idea. He didn’t need her permission to return, and she wondered why he had even bothered to look her way. Why was he suddenly showing her respect? What had happened to bring about his drastic change in attitude?
The more she pondered the question, the more perplexing it became. Was it the spanking incident with Pierre? That seemed to be the turning point, but she quickly dismissed the notion. Since the night of his arrival, he hadn’t disguised his belief she was promiscuous—his brother’s paramour. So how could Pierre’s spanking have changed that opinion? Yet now, he was treating her like a lady!
Whatever the reason, she wouldn’t lament her good fortune, and she certainly wouldn’t jeopardize it by barring him from his sisters’ studies. As long as he treated h
er amicably, she’d reciprocate. Today’s turn of events heralded good times at last, good times indeed!
Friday, September 1, 1837
It was close to midnight when the French doors began opening again. Jeannette was frightened and stood quaking at the foot of her governess’s bed.
“Yvette probably opened them,” Charmaine reasoned. “It was hot today.”
“I did not!”
Yvette’s denial from the room beyond seemed a bit too vehement. They’d been through this same scenario two weeks ago. Clearly, a hoax was being perpetrated. The girl’s fascination with the morbid had continued to grow: monsters, vampires, and now ghosts.
Charmaine sighed and ushered Jeannette back to her own room, fixing a pointed stare at Yvette once Jeannette was settled back in bed.
“You think I opened them?” Yvette demanded.
“I thought you wanted to prove Joseph the ninny, not your sister.”
Yvette folded her arms in a huff, denying any hand in the opening doors.
Charmaine did not believe her; unfortunately Jeannette did and could not be reassured. When footfalls resounded in the hallway, Charmaine was ready to seek assistance. “If your brother tells you there’s no such thing as ghosts, will you believe him?”
Jeannette nodded halfheartedly.
Charmaine looked down at Pierre, clutching his stuffed lamb. He slept soundly, oblivious to it all. She slipped on her robe and departed.
Paul’s dressing room door stood slightly ajar, soft light spilling through the crack. Charmaine raised her hand to knock, but hesitated.
“Second thoughts?”
She jumped, heaving a sigh of relief when she pivoted around to find John ascending the last steps of the staircase. “You startled me.”
“I’m sure I did,” he commented wryly. “Next time, use the French doors. They’re less conspicuous.”
“French doors?” Charmaine queried innocently. The light dawned. “Oh, you don’t understand! I was only going to ask your brother for a favor.”
“A favor?” he snickered, his lips curling into a lopsided smile.
“Shouldn’t he be asking you?”
“Sir, you misunderstand.”
John shook his head, chuckling this time, and stepped toward his bedchamber door mumbling, “I don’t think so.”
“Sir?”
“Mademoiselle?”
There was no turning back. He was the preferable choice for comforting his distraught sister. “Do you have a moment?”
“I have a whole night.”
Her cheeks grew warm. “Oh, never mind! I’ll see to it myself.”
He curtailed his japing and met her at the nursery door. “What is it you actually wanted, Miss Ryan?”
Once she’d explained, he entered the children’s bedroom, crossed to Jeannette’s bed, and set his efforts to comforting her.
“Miss Ryan tells me you’re frightened.”
“The French doors keep opening all by themselves,” she moaned, glancing toward Yvette, who remained awake, but silent.
John’s gaze followed. “And you don’t know who opened them?”
“No, but when it happened the last time, I saw somebody. This time, I only heard a noise.”
“It was just your imagination—the result of all the ghost stories you’ve been reading.”
“No, it can’t be,” she countered. “The first time it happened was before I started any of those books. Besides, doors don’t open by themselves.”
“Sometimes they do,” John replied.
“They do?” both girls asked in unison.
“They do,” he affirmed, demonstrating how a draft could cause a door to swing open. Jeannette smiled at last, admitting she was no longer afraid.
“But how did the latch come undone?” Yvette asked.
“These doors don’t lock, Yvette. Sometimes a latch doesn’t catch properly. That’s probably what happened tonight. Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Ryan?”
“Absolutely.”
Yvette only grunted and stretched out once again on her bed.
He walked over to the French doors to reopen them. “It’s going to be hot again tomorrow. Best to enjoy the breeze while it lasts.”
“No!” Jeannette cried. Then seeing she’d disturbed Pierre, she continued more softly, “Please close them—the right way, Johnny. I’m still frightened.”
“But you told me you weren’t.”
“Not of the doors, just of someone creeping in here, like the last time.”
“The only person creeping around the house at this late hour,” John remarked lightheartedly, “is George, pillaging treats from Cookie’s kitchen.”
The girls giggled, as he knew they would, but their laughter succeeded in waking Pierre.
Charmaine sighed. The disruption had turned into a midnight party.
John read her displeasure and stepped over to the boy. “Back to sleep,” he gently admonished, ruffling the lad’s hair. “There is nothing to be afraid of in here. You have Miss Ryan in the very next room, and if you need me, I’m close, too. All you have to do is call.”
“Thank you,” Charmaine whispered as he reached the door, disconcerted by his nearness.
“Any time at all,” he replied.
“Johnny?” Jeannette called. “Do you believe in monsters?”
He faced her again. “Definitely.”
“Have you ever seen one?”
“Saw one this morning at breakfast.”
“You did?”
“Didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I don’t know how you could have missed her,” he continued with a straight face, giving them a moment to absorb his irreverent humor. “She was sitting right at the foot of the table with her great big nose in the air.”
They burst into laughter, and Charmaine stifled a giggle of her own.
“You know,” he offered, stepping toward their beds again, “Paul was frightened of Cookie when she first came to work here.”
“Why?”
“Well, we were very young when she became our cook—only about five or six years old. But Paul thought she was the boo-bock.”
“The boo-bock?”
“Yes, the boo-bock—a monster,” John explained, delving into an extended story of how he had tricked Paul into believing the jovial and kindhearted cook was attempting to poison him. The children hung on his every word, chortling more than once, and especially when their disgruntled father threatened Paul with the switch if he persisted in his disrespect. Although Charmaine knew the tale was meant to be a diversion, she was certain every word was true and found the deception cruel.
John read her disdainful expression. “Surely you can find humor in a childhood prank, Miss Ryan. I assure you Paul played his fair share on me.”
“Well taught at your hands, no doubt.”
“No doubt,” he agreed. “I apologize if my inadequate stories offend you.”
Charmaine regretted the remark. “I’m sorry. I never had brothers, so I suppose I’m not a fair judge of how boys behave. I do appreciate your help.”
“Very well,” he replied, winking at the children, “we’ll leave it at that.”
“You know, Johnny,” Jeannette mused, “I’m not afraid when you’re here. Do you think you could sleep with us tonight?”
“And where would I sleep, Jeannie?”
“With Pierre. He wouldn’t mind. Would you, Pierre?”
The boy immediately lit up. “No, I wouldn’ mind!”
“See? Please stay!”
John canted his head as if considering the request, and Charmaine cringed at the begging chorus that followed, mindful of the adjoining door and its easy access to her room.
“You’re not being fair to Pierre,” he said. “You’ve talked him into this.”
“No they hav’n,” the child replied, his chubby cheeks rosy in the lamplight. “I want you to stay wight here, too!”
Charmaine waited for John’s response, struc
k by the tenderness—vulnerability perhaps—that fleetingly crossed his face. “It seems I’m outnumbered. If Miss Ryan has no objections,” and he looked at her, “then I suppose I must stay.”
“I’ve no objections,” she murmured, hugging herself against his perusal.
He nodded and turned away, the resemblance he bore to his father at that moment, striking—mostly in the magnetism he radiated. It was uncanny. John and Frederic are alike in so many ways…and both of them would vehemently deny it if they heard me say so. No wonder they clashed; two such intense personalities in one family couldn’t possibly coexist without someone getting hurt.
This revelation impelled her to study him more closely. He sat next to Pierre now, pulling off his boots. Even the physical traits were strong: the thick head of hair, squared jaw, curved nose, and thin lips. Although Paul was unmistakably a Duvoisin, with John, the similarity to Frederic went beyond appearance. John was so self-assured, directed himself with such purpose, that Paul couldn’t hope to compete. Suddenly, she was ill at ease with her mutinous musings.
“Will you monitor my bedtime preparations like you do Pierre, my Charm?” he quipped as he worked at his belt buckle. “Or must I beg for some privacy?”
The twins giggled, and Charmaine’s cheeks flamed red, realizing she’d been absentmindedly scrutinizing him. “I—I’m terribly sorry!” she sputtered. “I didn’t mean to—I mean I was—”
“I’m sure you didn’t,” he interrupted with a chuckle.
Realizing the shirt was coming off next, Charmaine hurried to the door. But when she looked over her shoulder to bid them one last goodnight, she saw he’d merely untucked it and was already stretched out alongside Pierre.
“I’m bunking with you tonight, Pierre,” he said, unaware of her nettled regard.
She’d show him she wasn’t embarrassed! She marched to Jeannette’s bed. “Let me tuck you in, sweetheart,” she said, pulling the coverlet up and giving her a kiss. She did the same to Yvette. “No talking,” she ordered mildly, walking over to Pierre next. She picked his lamb off the floor and placed it in his arms, giving him a kiss on the forehead.
“Don’t I get one?” John asked in feigned disappointment.
